


Prelude to Panacea

by Catzgirl



Series: The Grunge Hobo Learns to Trust [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Hair Washing, M/M, any of you looking for that, got some for ya right here, hey yall, kink??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 03:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13650423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catzgirl/pseuds/Catzgirl
Summary: Fjord and Caleb share a quiet moment in a bathhouse, discussing Caleb's old hurts and how to fix them.





	Prelude to Panacea

**Author's Note:**

> You could probably read this one without reading the first part of the series. I wanted to follow part 1 up with this super smutty catharsis thing but couldn't figure out a good segue into it so I wrote this filler chapter instead because I hate myself???

"I did something I shouldn't have. On purpose." His voice is pitched lowly enough that it does not echo on the stone walls of the bathing room. Steam billows around their forms, Fjord's legs solid as walls on either side of him, and not being able to see the half-orc is the only thing that gives him the courage to speak at all. 

There's a gravely "harumph" from behind him as the largest pair of hands Caleb's encountered reach to dip a washcloth in the bucket in Caleb's lap, pulling it sopping from the warm water and disappearing behind his back again. They'd already soaked in the pool a few feet away, both of them the cleanest they've been in a month. But this wasn't something Caleb could do surrounded by water. Fjord, it seems, has not yet become exhausted of indulging him. "Don't sound like much out of the ordinary for us," Fjord says as the washcloth smooths over the back of Caleb's head, one hand cupping the crest of his skull so no water drips into his eyes. 

 _Focus. Breathe._ Little rivulets stream down the back of his neck and Fjord kisses them away, murmurs, "Easy, darlin'," as though it is. 

Caleb takes a deep breath, in and out, lets his eyes track the swirling patterns of the room, does not let them close, says, "This was a bit more ostentatious than anything I've attempted since. Not only because I was caught in the act." 

Fjord dips his cloth again. Sets it to a different section of Caleb's hair. Methodical and steady. 

He would never ask for Caleb to share this story. He would never coerce him into it. But it's important that he knows the sort of man he's getting involved with. 

"I told them- everything." It's not often that Caleb fumbles on his words. "I told them everything they wanted to know, and then I told them other things that I'd done, then I started making things up. It was- weeks, maybe months, before I realized that it didn't matter. They weren't- they weren't doing it for information, really." 

His hair is sopping, now, and he can almost not think about it. Fjord throws his cloth somewhere off to the side, as browned as the water in the bucket is grimy just from its superficial passes over Caleb's scalp. Even sitting with Caleb between his legs he's impossibly tall, and it must be incredibly uncomfortable for him to stoop enough to rest his chin on Caleb's shoulder, but he does. A mouth presses against the column of his throat- no heated urgency, just small, wet little affectionate kisses. Reminders:  _Breathe. Focus. I'm right here._  

Caleb leans back into the embrace, lets his hands ease down the verdant legs encompassing him, revels in the muscles rippling there. Sailor's legs: roped and corded from catching his balance on a rollicking ship. From climbing all over masts and riggings for days on end. Caleb's sea vessel terminology is spent with the thoughts, but his vivid imagination more than fills in the gaps. He sighs, watches the breath push through the atmosphere of the room, hands over a small vial of an oily soap, says, "I had pneumonia perpetually, in those days." 

Fjord takes the proffered bottle, drops a final kiss onto a freckled shoulder with lips just as firm as the rest of him. 

"They'd give me a healing potion before, usually. So I wouldn't sicken enough to die. They'd make me beg." 

Fjord's hands are tentative in his hair, slick with the soap and careful of the gnarls and knots. Caleb imagines that those hands are shaking ever so slightly, a projection of course because his are wildly trembling. He grasps Fjord's knees to stop them, and bends into what he figures will be a more accessible angle. Fjord rewards him by massaging his scalp for a moment, working the suds in and scritching soothingly. If Caleb still thinks that there's a tremble to them, it's nothing worth remarking on. 

"I don't know if Nott had been there for a while, or if I was the first person she met. She took one look at me and told me we were getting out together." 

Even now, it's incredible to him. This little slip of a goblin, peering up at him in the darkness of the prison floor as he convulsed, shivering and sweating and barely aware of his surroundings. She had been sad, so he had used what little strength he had to summon Frumpkin for her. A guardian, he'd told her, to keep her out of trouble. 

They'd sent for him within hours. The guards had to carry him to the little room they used for it; cold and stone and without windows, a little drain in the center of the floor. He'd been dosed with a healing potion that day, he remembers because he'd made sure afterwards to find his little goblin friend before any sickness set in, soaked through and covered in his own sick, so he could help her plan with a clear head. He'd gone back three more times before they'd figured out how to do it. The last time, Nott herself had almost been taken, had offered herself up in his stead. The guards had only laughed: they were killing Caleb, slowly, but all the same. Nott would not have lasted under their cruelty. 

 _Breathe. Focus. I'm right here. You're safe with me_. The fingers in his hair tug ever so slightly, cajoling him into sitting up straight. 

"As I recall Nott's series of events, you helped each other," Fjord says. "Hold tight a moment," he adds, gripping the bucket with one hand and making to stand. 

"No, no, I've got it quite in hand," Caleb retorts, waves over the bucket so that fresh, clean water replaces the soiled. 

"Wizards," Fjord mutters derisively. Caleb scoffs, rolls his eyes, "Warlocks." 

Fjord chooses a new wash cloth, brings it from bucket to Caleb's head with care, begins to rinse the suds away. There isn't much more story to share. They'd escaped, hadn't they? The prison, at least. Caleb wasn't sure he'd ever escape the nightmares and cold sweats and the bone-deep fear that had taken over his existence. 

"Your clothes," Fjord says, half a question that- if his tone is any indication- he doesn't expect to be answered. 

"I can't- when they dry they're all, stiff, or they're still damp, they're wrong," Caleb babbles idly, letting his mouth run as he focuses on easing the tension from his shoulders, from his legs, calming his fight or flight. 

A hand strokes down his back, reassuring and reminder, and it's so warm and intimate and lovely that Caleb arches his back and looses a little groan. 

"Almost done," Fjord murmurs, lending both hands to carding through Caleb's hair, ensuring that no soap or snarls have missed his ministrations. They both know that he's been thorough, but Caleb needs the moment to reign himself in, recommit his anxiety to something considerably more pleasant. If Fjord needs a moment of his own, well, he's not exactly in a position to judge. 

"I think I can help with this," forest-quiet, low-tide, if adventuring doesn't work out for him Fjord definitely has a career ahead of him as a courtier based solely on his voice. "I have something in mind, but we'll need to have a good long talk about it first." 

Caleb tips his head back, pressed fully into a splendidly green chest, is exactly tall enough that he can lean up and kiss the underside of Fjord's chin. 

Fjord takes the bucket from between his legs, sets it to the side, and Caleb takes the gesture as an invitation to turn and raise into a kneel so they're eye-to-eye. 

"I trust you," he says quietly. "It's harder for me than it once was." He swallows but holds Fjord's gaze. He'd promised not to speak ill of himself, but he'd also promised to be more honest. Sometimes he has to choose. "I am not the man I thought I would be." 

Fjord's eyes travel down the length of him, his tongue flickering over his lips as he beholds certain parts stirring with interest, lets his gaze wander back up the wizard's slender thighs, the expanse of his lean chest, catches for a moment and grows molten on that pale throat, before finally finally  _finally_  locking with Caleb's with all the warmth and compassion that Caleb can't spare for himself. 

"Are any of us?" Fjord asks, arms loosely looping around Caleb's waist as Caleb's encircle his neck. 

He can feel the crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, and he kisses this man, this half-orc, this incredible warlock with the exact amount of gentle care Fjord has taken with his hair, and breaths, "I suppose not. But I'd like to be. With your help." 

It's a long time before they speak again. 

**Author's Note:**

> There will only be one more part, probably, and it's just gonna be straight up, penetrative sex. So if that's not your scene, beware! For everyone who kudos'd, commented, or bookmarked the first part: this is literally for you. You guys were so encouraging and overwhelmingly positive that I had to write more! So thanks for that.  
> I'm going into a testing week in college, so idk when part three will be up! My best bet would be Thursday or Friday! You can scream at me on tumblr in the meantime, if you wanna!


End file.
